It seemed to him that all the influences of earth and heaven had combined to create this hour for him.

To be talking to her of books that interpreted life and of life itself was in itself something sweet; he wished such comradeship as this, made possible by their common interests in the deep, surging currents of the century in which they lived, to go on forever.
Their discussion of Tolstoy was interrupted by the swift flight of a motor boat that passed near, raising a small sea, and he seized the paddle to steady the canoe.

Then silence fell upon them.
"Sylvia" he said softly, and again, "Sylvia!" It seemed to him that the silence and the beauty of the night were his ally, communicating to her infinite longings hidden in his heart which he had no words to express.
"I love you, Sylvia; I love you.

I came up to-night to tell you that." "Oh, Dan, you mustn't say it--you must never say it!" The canoe seemed to hang between water and stars, a motionless argosy in a sea of dreams.
"I wanted to tell you before you came away," he went on, not heeding; "I have wanted to tell you for a long time.

I want you to marry me.